[se] when another is gone

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He stared, over shoulders, watching as figments and traces of other wraiths dashed across his vision. It was a tracking mechanism, if he were still a predator and not some felled beast, caged in his own mind. The man could see a multitude of other things: the rain, pouring down in swarths and sheets, softening to curtains and cascades, something akin to fortifications in the corner, and why he longed for either of them remained difficult to fathom. When his gaze eventually churned back to the other man, he must’ve appeared suitably lost – uncertainty beating away at the heart of him, in the subtle inclination of his head, in the way the question only appeared to meet him halfway. A slow and steady blink, to wash away the confusion, the torment, and it lingered still, in the corners of his eyes, like bulbs and barbs of light. The Sword handed over the bowl, and likely took far too long to answer, to give a response, for he had no way of knowing. One day he’d woken up to the haze, to the lunacy, to the absolute delirium, the unwinding, unfurling bludgeoning feelings crackling through his bones. He’d never been so sick – even as a child. “I do not know,” could only regale on a whisper, head slowly hanging further down, pride and forbearance shattered, gone. “Thirsty,” was an even lower murmur, barely registering through a clenched jaw. “Not water.” Whether or not this made any sense didn’t seem to bother Deimos, who’d gradually begun to lean and tilt to the right. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace